


You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

by shretl (girlundone)



Series: A Girl Needs A Gun These Days [9]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Established Relationship, F/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Orpheus and Eurydice imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl
Summary: Garrus can't say the words, but he can show the sentiment.A companion piece to Another Girl's Paradise, though reading the former is not strictly necessary.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian, Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Series: A Girl Needs A Gun These Days [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1180568
Comments: 22
Kudos: 41





	You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer). Moxies are adorable Palaven creatures that belong to the talented [Soignee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soignee/pseuds/Soignee).

It wasn’t always the same dream, but it was certainly one he had before.

_He’s holed up in the sniper’s perch of Archangel’s hideout. The stench of failure along with the sickeningly-sweet scent of rotting bodies and the acrid smell of blood_ _invade his nasal canals. The words of his father are rattling around in his head with the count of heatsinks he has left. Too many stims have set his nerves on edge, but his aim is steady and true._

_He’s running low on those last two necessities but he manages a round through a merc’s neck and into the shoulder of her comrade behind her. They keep coming and coming, pouring over the bridge. He reloads and grabs another stim to jab into—_

_He sees the crimson stripe first. Then the matte charcoal armour. He’d know the way she moved anywhere. Shepard. Shepard is here._

_But something’s wrong. She’s not running towards him, she’s running away. Away to that white beam of the Crucible. Her hair isn’t straight and pinned back like she always wore it in battle. It’s curly and wild and free, floating behind her in a red-gold corona._

_He tries to stand, heedless of bullets and grenades, but his leg won’t cooperate. He looks down and blood is pouring out of his hip, down his leg, as blue as his armour. He opens his jaws to shout her name, to stop her, but his mandible won’t move. He touches it and more blood comes away, soaking his glove._

_She runs. She’s enveloped in light. She’s gone._

_She never looked back._

Garrus’ breath didn’t catch nor did he bolt up as he used to after these dreams, but his heart beat uncomfortably fast. He turned first, to watch Shepard breathe. He could feel the warmth of her, ensconced in the blankets, tucked into his side, but he wasn’t reassured that she was really there, really alive, until he watched her chest rise and fall in steady pace.

It was so rare that she was asleep and he was awake that he watched her for a while. It was funny, really. When he first started entertaining the idea of sleeping with Shepard, he never considered how Shepard slept.

Poorly, was the answer. She always seemed to be awake when he fell asleep and yet somehow rose before he woke up. After they were separated those six months, on Earth and Palaven and Menae, she would fall into fitful naps of exhaustion, punctuated by nightmares. She slept then as she did now, her jaw tight, her brow not entirely smooth, her body curled on its side as though to protect itself from attack.

Garrus wanted to shake her awake. He wanted to see the light in those grey-green eyes of hers and the secret smile play in the corner of her mouth. But though she sometimes woke him after a bad dream, he couldn’t do it. No matter how much he wanted to press his body against hers, to join as one, to prove they had both survived, he had to let Shepard sleep.

He tried settling into a comfortable position without disturbing her, but sleep alluded him. Tapping his omni-tool to life, he discovered with tired disgust that it was only forty minutes before their alarms went off. Too early to wake up; too late to go back to sleep.

The strap of Shepard’s silver silk slip had fallen at some point and he stared, in the dim amber light, at the bony protrusions of her collarbone and shoulder. When she woke up— and she always woke up before the alarm, he would draw her against him and kiss her into wakefulness. She would press the whole length of her body against his— full-bodied kisses, he always thought of them— and push the slip down—

No, no, no. Then her chemise would just end up tangled in a rope-like band around her waist and she hated that. No, he’d pull it over her head instead and roll over, covering her body with his. She’d be pressing those soft, plush kisses he couldn’t reciprocate over his face and he would slip a hand between her legs and stroke the velvety skin of the inside of her thighs. Then—

“Morning, big guy. You’re up early.” Shepard’s pillow-creased face was alive, awake, alert in the fog of his fantasy.

Garrus ran a talon across the sharp line of her cheekbone, remembering the sunburn she had there so many years ago and more recently yet on their honeymoon. But he didn’t answer with words. Instead, he cupped her face and pulled her in for a kiss.

She responded so warmly, so eagerly, that he thought nothing of slipping a hand up the outside of her thigh, ready to pull her chemise off over her head as he imagined minutes before. But Shepard pulled away, regretfully, he thought.

“I have a breakfast meeting,” she explained ruefully.

Dammit. Crap. He had forgotten all about that. With a sigh, he flopped back against the mattress in utter defeat and a fierce ache behind his plates.

Garrus’ dolefulness amused Shepard enough to make her laugh as she bent over him and pressed a pillow-soft kiss to his mandible. “Rain check if you come home early. It’s just the Partners of Dekuuna this morning and I’m wide open after that.”

He did know enough of his English idioms to understand, though early evening certainly seemed far enough away to his protesting plates. “There haven’t been any signs of a coup or threat to sentient life recently,” he reasoned in a drawl.

Shepard had the audacity to pull her slip off over her head and toss it on the foot of the bed as she headed for the shower. “We’ll get takeout. Make it a date.”

Garrus threw an arm across his eyes and groaned with the weight of a thousand krogans. The sight of her body, the sound of the shower. Shepard hated shower sex as a rule, and he would never presume push for anything she had already denied. Ever since he tried to take Stacia Syvalnus’ moxie toy on the playground when he was three and his mom explained boundaries and consent to him in her kindly but forthright way, Garrus understood no meant no. But he couldn’t help but remember the time after that one mission on Sanctum with the Blue Suns during their time with Cerberus, things had gotten messy and Shepard had really wanted to blow off steam. Usually, it wasn’t like that. Even when they fucked, they made love. But she was starving for it and there they were, up against her shower wall. He could taste her skin on his tongue now, copper and chlorine mixed together from her blood and the recycled water.

She was out the door before he knew it, silk and leather and that corona of red-gold curls. She called out a good-bye, but she never looked back.

The Rapid Transit ride was agony. Every nerve in Garrus’ body felt like it had been hit by an enemy’s overload. His suit felt too tight, though maybe it was. Shepard was a really good cook and he hadn’t been hitting the gym like he used to… But even the crush of people set his plates on fire. For once in his life, he didn’t want to be on his way to work, doing a job he loved. He wanted to be in bed (or on the couch or against the wall or even over the kitchen counter, though she’d make him wipe it down afterwards) with Shepard.

He thought it would be better once he was at work. His bored assistant, Uliya

the matronly, dumpy asari who liked no one and whom no one liked, rattled off his messages in her die-away voice. Garrus had stopped trying to win her over ages ago, despite Shepard’s advice. He didn’t have the patience.

Shepard again. In her leather jacket, the symbol of their relationship, their marriage, the silk of her tunic cut low to show her collarbone…

Garrus plugged away at his terminal for a few hours responding to various and sundry messages, alerts, analyses, and information all pertaining to matters of Council security, but his mind kept drifting. Shepard in bed with that strap off her shoulder. Shepard in those tight pants that made her ass look like something you could bite into and savour. Shepard in his office…

Ah, that was a favourite fantasy. Yeah, Shepard was a former Alliance marine, a former Spectre, Saviour of the Citadel, and Defender of the Galaxy, but getting the security clearance for her to enter his office was pretty much impossible. Still, she often had meetings in the hotel bars and restaurants by the Council offices. He liked to imagine her coming from one, in her liquid grey silk and black leather, stripping off one item at a time. It’d be like a vid, sweeping everything off his desk.

Well, not exactly like a vid. All those datapads and his terminal held the utmost intelligence for the galaxy. They’d have to be really careful not to break anything.

But almost like a vid. Garrus was old enough to accept nothing in life was like a vid after all.

The morning dragged into the afternoon, interrupted only by a depressing lunch of leftovers in his office. Takeout was for that night.

Which gave him an idea. Garrus had a horror of being hacked. It was so easy to do and considering a close and personal friend was also the Shadow Broker and could read his text messages and emails to Shepard at any time, he had devised a way they could still… chat without resorting to dark omni-tool vids from the bathroom stall.

It was called ‘ordering in’ and each activity one or the other chose to express was coded into a type of food. One neither of them actually ever ate.

Garrus lit up his ‘tool.

G: In the mood to order in?

There was barely a pause.

S: I was already thinking of silken tofu.

Garrus settled deeply into his cushy office chair. That was code for lingerie. It was always good to know when the wife was on the same page.

G: Then I’ll be up for some _concae_. S: I guess I’ll need a banana smoothie after that. Crap, all he wanted to do at that point was sneak off to the bathroom and take care of himself. But no, Shepard was waiting for him and it wouldn’t be fair. 

They texted a bit more, but a rather important email about rearranging the schedule for Councilor’s Itzhaki’s security detail came through and he found himself deep in a swarm of messages that, luckily for him, receded as the night cycle swept through Kithoi.

The Rapid Transit ride home was much easier than the one going into work. What specifically occupied Garrus’ thoughts were what Shepard might be wearing.

There was the teal velvet number, a favourite of his. The black silk with the geometric cutouts. The translucent pearl grey silk robe. Oh, but the new number…

On his way to work from the Rapid Transit station, he passed Athame’s Adornments. It was an upscale boutique that obviously appealed to asari clientele and therefore Garrus had barely ever glanced through the duraglass windows. But one day, something caught his eye. It was a short slip, the kind Shepard slept in, and a matching, equally short robe in some sort of sheer material with some kind of decoration— not lace exactly— around the neckline, hem, and cuffs. Not satin, but something less slinky, but still flowing. But most astonishingly, it was in the same greenish-grey of her eyes. He inquired in the store, who did not seem confused or curious by a turian looking to buy lingerie meant for another species and went on to use terms like _cotton-silk_ _voile_ and _broderie anglaise_. He didn’t understand the half of it, but when he decided to order it for Shepard’s birthday, the asari helping him tried to steer him away from the colour he liked so much to begin with and onto a white set instead. “This just doesn’t go with blue, dear.”

Garrus was perhaps more recognisable sometimes, by his scars and visor, than some of the other _Normandy_ crew, but it was Shepard the galaxy wanted to both remember and forget. However, when he awkwardly explained it was a gift for his wife, a human, he saw the light of recognition in the asari’s eyes. To her credit, no two-bit tabloid published an article about Vakarian buying lingerie for Shepard. The truth was the galaxy wanted to forget they ever needed her or the crew of the _Normandy_ at all.

She was waiting for him when he got home, backlit perfectly. In his birthday gift, only the slip, without the robe. It was so sheer in the lighting which she has staged herself that he could see the curve of her breast, the indention of her waist, the dark furrow between her legs.

He locked up his side piece first, as always. But usually fastidious, he let his clothes and heavy boots drop piece by piece instead as he set heavy, portentous steps towards her.

“I’ve been thinking of you all day.” It was a drawl thrumming with dark, auspicious subvocals.

She played innocent, tracing a long, slender finger along her collarbone. “Of me? Doing what?”

He was so close to her that he could feel the warmth of her body, but he didn’t touch her yet. “You. On my desk.”

At this, she smiled in that way that made more than just behind his plates ache. His heart ached too. All it took was that little lift in the corner of her mouth. “On it? Not under it?”

“On it. Under it.” And now, finally, he grabbed her ass and pulled her against him. “Over it.”

They had been together for eleven years and were in the process of having a child together, but they went at each other like two recruits on their first weekend leave from boot camp. First, she was up against the wall and then he found himself pushed against the oven. He thought briefly of steering them over to the kitchen counter but had no desire to clean it afterwards. Same went for the dining room table. There was the couch, but it wasn’t quite right either. Especially when he wanted to take his time. All night. In between eating some takeout.

They ended up in bed, of course. Shepard was very careful in taking off her birthday present, unlike his work clothes scattered in the hallway of their apartment. She was invariably reverent of her possessions. Especially gifts.

She always said his kisses were like previews but he had his talons between her legs before he even managed to bury his face there. Perhaps round two would be longer. After all, this had been building up all day. And she was so close. He could see by the lines of her body, the way she strained her neck back, her curls fanned out on the pillow behind her.

And then she said it.

“I love you, I love you.”

All breath left him. His sticky hand clutched the sheets and he hid his face in her soft, warm breast. He wanted to say it. She must know how much he wanted to say it. But he couldn’t. He said it to her before the Omega-4 Relay. He said it to her right before she ran to the beam.

It was the last thing he said to his mother.

I love you meant goodbye.

He choked; the words forever stuck in his dual vocals. He knew how horrible it was to have not said it for nine years. To think it every day and not say it. He tried to show it. He cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms and even cooked when she couldn’t, though his levo repertoire was limited to eggs and pasta, non-withstanding she swore he had a gift for both. He fixed the sink and unclogged the shower drain and upgraded her omni-tool and held her hand when they watched vids. He loved her so much it hurt. He could feel the ache of it with each thud of his heart. But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t lose her.

She was stroking his fringe now, her usually cool hands warm from grasping his plates. She made the soft, soothing noises he imagined she would make to their children one day until he calmed his breath and could swallow against the words lodged behind his tongue.

They were quiet but for their heart beats. Then she said quietly, “Show me. Show me how you love me.”

She understood. She always did.

He couldn’t face her, so he started at her neck. Tasting, licking, nipping his way down, down, down. Her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Her rosy nipples and the low curve of her breast. The dip of her waist and jut of her hips. He buried his face in the velvet of her thighs.

Shepard wasn’t one to finish more than once very often. Garrus liked to set to work to ensure she did first because, sometimes, if he finished before her, she would nudge him aside and say she was fine. The intimacy of the act was enough for her. He didn’t understand but he always respected her.

That night wasn’t going to be once. Or twice. He wasn’t going to tease like he enjoyed, drawing her close and then edging off until she begged. Instead, he prepared an onslaught.

Perhaps because they had been yearning for each other all day. Perhaps because she had been so close before panic enveloped him. But she came quickly and didn’t brush him aside when he continued without letting up. His mandibles ached, especially the old injury, and his talons threatened to cramp, but he was determined. Three seemed like a good goal.

Twice was a hard-won victory, but it happened at last. Still, he was determined. But she gently pushed his head aside.

He didn’t say it often, but he said it now. “Please.”

She tugged on his fringe until he rose up above her. Then she was able to sit up and cup his face, as he did that morning. “I want you with me.”

He shook his head. “This is about you.”

She smiled that smile. Her smile. _His_ smile. “There is no me without you, remember? No Shepard without Vakarian?”

That awful day, that awful beam, her red-gold hair disappearing into the white light. The months on the deserted planet. The months watching her chest rise and fall in the hospital. The years of recovery.

She never looked back.

He wiped his jaws with his wrist, though both felt sore and sticky. “I need you to look at me. You can’t look away.”

It must have seemed like such an innocuous request to her. She didn’t even pause. “Whatever you need.”

Moments, minutes, hours later, he was on top of her, inside her, and the last thing he saw before he fell into that blissful oblivion of ecstasy was her face.


End file.
